


Wash Our Sins Away

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Character Death - not Ferdinand or Hubert, Established Relationship, Ferdibert Week (Fire Emblem), Ferdibert Week 2019, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gentle Dom Hubert, M/M, Oral Sex, Scars, War, dom!hubert, service hubert, sub!ferdinand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21665065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: After a difficult battle, Hubert reassures Ferdinand of the righteousness of their cause, and his own worthiness. (Body worship/scars) With an illustration by @DecasArt.Ferdibert Week Day 4:Battle/Scars
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 18
Kudos: 392
Collections: Ferdibert Ship Week 2019





	Wash Our Sins Away

**Author's Note:**

> **Ferdibert Week 2019!**
> 
>   * [**Day 1: Fairytale** with @GraceDrawsStuff](https://twitter.com/gracedrawsstuff/status/1201171606741098496)
>   * [**Day 2: Domestic** with @DecasArt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640591)
>   * [**Day 3: Jealousy**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653182)
> 

> 
> Featuring a lovely new illustration by [@DecasArt](http://twitter.com/DecasArt)!!!!

Ferdinand’s tent is gravely silent when Hubert approaches, after far too many hours tallying the dead and inventorying supplies with Her Majesty. It’s silent, but if Ferdinand’s face on the battlefield was any indication, sleep is far from gracing him. That face, slack and stained, his bright eyes washed of their usual color—that face nearly shattered Hubert, and he will do anything to brighten it once more.

Hubert hesitates at the canvas flap. Listens. Maybe his presence would not be so welcome as he hopes. He’s always been at home in the twilight between life and death; until very recently, there wasn’t a soul whose passing would have pained him for even a moment save Her Majesty’s. He does not relish death—not often—but sees it as a state like any other, a purpose to be served.

Ferdinand, too, does not fear visiting death upon those who’ve earned it. With a flutter in his chest, Hubert recalls vividly the times he’s seen his beloved smeared with blood—furious—righteous. He is an angel of vengeance when required, a glorious sight to behold, carving through the wicked with devastating skill.

The aftermath of such a battle, too, has often been seared into Hubert’s mind forever: breeches barely unfastened, spines pressed against tree bark, ragged cries echoing in the stillness of death as they mark each other, claim each other, fuck each other, smear each other with blood—remind themselves they’re both alive.

Tonight, he thinks, will be different. But he’s whispered a promise for better and worse. He loves every dark, jagged corner and tender bruise of Ferdinand, and will nurture them all.

He lifts the tent flap and slips inside.

“General,” he says softly—not wanting to startle him. His footfalls, usually spectral, tread heavy across the ground as he approaches where Ferdinand sits curled inside a wash basin, knees to his chest. Hubert doesn’t need to touch the water it to know it’s long since turned cold.

“Beloved,” he says, quieter this time.

Ferdinand huffs faintly as Hubert trails the back of a gloved hand along his neck and shoulder. Hubert pauses, waiting for any further indication as to whether he should continue, but there is none. He lets his hand drop down to his side.

“Would you like me to attend you?” Hubert asks instead.

Ferdinand closes his eyes at that; draws a breath. Maybe it’s cheating to deploy such a tactic, but offering up his service to his beloved never fails to win over Ferdinand’s heart. Perhaps it’s merely the attention paid to him, a man who for so long craved it, craved acknowledgment, craved any indication he had worth. Or maybe it’s the reminder that there is no part of Hubert that Ferdinand does not also possess; that in addition to being the sole owner of Hubert’s heart and soul, Hubert will serve him with every bit of care and precision that he serves his emperor.

He lifts his head and finally turns Hubert’s way. Tears streak his face like the rake of sharp claws. His usually bright lashes are dark, clumped, and his eyes are dulled and dried out from too many tears shed. Hubert aches to kiss it all, every last inch of him, but tonight, he thinks, is about whatever his love needs most.

“Please,” Ferdinand croaks.

Hubert tamps down the fracture he feels splitting through his heart. He brings down a ewer of water from the table and pours out a bowl, then dunks a washcloth into it; kneels down before his beloved. Ferdinand’s eyes track him, and for a moment, Hubert merely looks at him, and the ache in his heart swells, threatens to swallow him up.

He feels no remorse, no pity for anything they have done in this war. But this—Ferdinand’s suffering—this, he will always regret.

Ferdinand closes his eyes and juts his chin forward, offering his face to be cleaned. That, at least, pulls a weak smile from Hubert. Flames, how he loves this man. Despite it all, Ferdinand is still very much himself.

He moves the washcloth in slow, gentle strokes against Ferdinand’s face and dips it in the water periodically to rinse it. Dirt and tears and flecks of blood—not Ferdinand’s—swirl in the basin. With each pass of the washcloth, some of the tension sloughs off of Ferdinand. As Hubert reaches across him to scrub his other cheek, Ferdinand’s head tilts against his and comes to rest there, his eyes lidding, and a tiny sigh escapes chapped lips.

Hubert stops and lets his arm drop. He doesn’t move; doesn’t turn to kiss Ferdinand’s temple, even though he’s aching to do so. He simply waits.

“She was my friend,” Ferdinand says, after a long minute.

Hubert hums softly.

“We sang together in choir.”

Hubert waits; waits for him to wander through the valley of his grief.

“We used to joke, once, that we were long-lost siblings. That she was one of my younger siblings—with the same colored hair. We were—close. And then the war came, and she stayed with them—”

He breaks off; closes his eyes, as if trying to conjure up more tears, and yet he can’t. Rather than offer empty platitudes, Hubert stands, and opens a towel for Ferdinand. Waits.

Limbs shaking, Ferdinand rises from the tub with a slosh of water. It spills over Hubert’s trousers and boots, but he does little more than flinch. Once Ferdinand is upright, he wraps the towel around him, and then . . . holds him. His chest to Ferdinand’s back. His arms sturdy and stabilizing.

He cannot tell him her death was worth it. He cannot assure him that she’d have preferred it be Ferdinand who did the deed. He cannot offer condolences, or consolation—because it is war, and all parties knew the cost. Ferdinand knows these things—he knows what is at stake, knows why Hubert has devoted his life to their cause, even long before Ferdinand knew there was a cause for them to pledge to. All that can matter now is this man, warm in his arms, heart beating, flush with life when others are not. And selfishly, Hubert would trade almost anyone’s life for that.

“Stay with me?” Ferdinand asks, in a voice impossibly small.

A silly question. Hubert has no tent of his own—hasn’t for some time, since the soldiers who pitched the officers’ encampments complained that he never used his, anyway. If he isn’t out attending to Her Majesty’s tasks in the shadows of night, then he is right here, at the general’s side.

But he nods all the same, chin over Ferdinand’s shoulder, and finally kisses the side of his head. “Always.”

Ferdinand grows heavier against him, leaning back, so Hubert gently coaxes him to step out of the washbasin and settles him on the edge of their bedding. He stands just long enough to fetch Ferdinand’s hairbrush and a ribbon from his belongings, then seats himself at Ferdinand’s back, thighs a wide V around Ferdinand.

Tenderly, he works the comb through tangled, drying locks of copper. If he hits a snag, he pinches the lock at the root, then teases it apart until he’s certain it won’t pull. Another time, he will snatch that glorious waterfall of hair by the fistful, wrench Ferdinand’s face toward his own, tear an anguished cry from pretty lips—but tonight he craves the pleased exhales he receives instead, the drowsy slump of shoulders carrying too great a burden.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand mumbles, once Hubert has finished. Then, twisting around to face him—“I—I love you.”

And it still thaws every last cold corner of Hubert’s heart to hear those words, sends a frisson of awareness through all his limbs. “And I love you.” He can’t help but smile. “Utterly. Wildly.”

Ferdinand’s cheeks tinge pink in the candlelight. “When this is over—if we survive—will you still . . .” He looks down, golden lashes shielding his gaze. “Do you still wish to be mine?”

“More than ever, beloved.” Hubert toys with the velvet ribbon. “I made you a promise, and I do not break them.”

It has been a few months since that night, on the eve of another major strike. Vows spoken only for each other’s ears and the stars overhead. But Ferdinand deserves—demands—formality. He deserves to be worshipped. And some sentimental streak in Hubert wants all the world to bear witness to this angel he’s somehow made his own.

“When this war ends—very soon now—I’ll make sure every last citizen of our vast and mighty empire knows that I am yours,” Hubert says. “With all the pageantry and opulence you deserve.”

Ferdinand smiles weakly at that, but after the day they’ve endured, Hubert will take it as a victory.

And then Ferdinand seizes his face quite abruptly and kisses him, wild and frantic, a man scrabbling for purchase on life itself. Hubert cries out as teeth sink into his lower lip and nails rake down his neck; as Ferdinand clutches desperately at his dress shirt, pulling, tearing at buttons. Hubert wraps one hand around Ferdinand’s bare waist and cradles the back of his head with the other, melting into Ferdinand’s frenzy. Baring his throat to brutal kisses, bruising bites, furious cries—

And then just as swiftly, Ferdinand collapses against him, head buried beneath Hubert’s chin with a wild sob.

Hubert holds him, smooths his hair. Rocks ever so gently as his lips press to Ferdinand’s temple, stay there. With each heave of Ferdinand’s chest, Hubert merely breathes with him; becomes his pillar to keep him upright.

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/v4eDuG1.jpg)

_art by[@DecasArt](http://twitter.com/DecasArt) (click for fullsize)_

“I am sorry,” Ferdinand says against Hubert’s chest. “I should not . . . I should be accustomed to . . .”

“It is always different,” Hubert says.

“And then what if one day—” Ferdinand chokes off with another sob. “What if one day it is you who’s struck down, and I—I cannot lose you—”

Hubert fears the opposite far more, but he will never tell Ferdinand of the nightmares that bind him up like poisonous, thorny vines. Nightmares of stumbling across Ferdinand’s body far too late after losing sight of him in battle. Or of watching, helpless, as he’s run through. A terrible, unspeakable one, once, when it was his own Dark Spikes that ripped through soft flesh and a bright smile beneath a different banner.

“I will do everything in my power to ensure it isn’t so,” Hubert says. He kisses the corner of Ferdinand’s eye and laps away fresh salty tears. “Just as I do everything I can to protect you.”

Ferdinand glances toward him with a tiny frown. “Your duty is to protect Her Majesty.”

Hubert swallows, throat uncomfortably tight. “It is. But Her Majesty has the good sense to stay in the back lines. Unlike this dashing cavalier I know.”

Ferdinand’s head tilts up, and his face is red and raw once more. “I do not mean to make you worry for me.”

“But I will, no matter what. Because I love you.” Hubert kisses the galaxy of freckles along his cheekbone. “Because you are my sunrise and my salvation. Because I adore you—”

“But I’ve done horrible things—” Ferdinand closes his eyes. “I killed her, and she was my friend—”

“You did your duty—”

“But that makes it worse, does it not, that I would obey such an order? I am not—” He shoves off of Hubert’s chest. “I do not deserve—”

“Enough.” Hubert clasps both of Ferdinand’s shaking hands in his own. “You deserve everything you desire and more. You deserve to be worshipped.”

“Not stained like this.” Ferdinand sighs.

“Stained. Scarred. It matters not to me. Because it is still you.” He brings Ferdinand’s hands to his lips and kisses bare knuckles as Ferdinand’s hands clutch tight to his own. “You—are perfect.”

Ferdinand manages a weary nod. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Another kiss, down the middle of his index finger. “And I will show you, if you like.” The faintest kiss at his fingertip. “Let me take care of you, love.”

Ferdinand takes a deep breath; lets it out slowly. Hubert’s gentle cadence seems to have helped him slow down again. “Please,” Ferdinand finally says.

Hubert smiles and lets go of his hands. Carefully, he works one arm beneath Ferdinand’s knees, and the other at his back, then gently repositions him on the pallet, stretching him out. His bathing towel has long since fallen away, and Hubert shoves it aside, leaving only a bared, scrubbed Ferdinand spread before him, coppery hair a halo around him.

“Your hands,” Hubert says, and with a soft sigh, Ferdinand raises them above his head. He threads the velvet hair ribbon around a tent post, then lashes it to Ferdinand’s wrists. “You’ll have to be very gentle. I’d hate for you to break this ribbon that looks so lovely in your hair.” He smiles; kisses Ferdinand’s forehead as wide eyes follow his movements. “You need simply to relax.”

Ferdinand's breath unwinds at that, and his body slackens. Hubert smiles. “Good. You are so good for me, love.” He graces his palm to Ferdinand's cheek, then runs both hands down the length of Ferdinand's outstretched right arm. As his palms skid from wrist to forearm, he follows them with a trailing kiss, but pauses at a small, white, hooked scar just beneath the inside of his elbow.

“Darling. Is this from those dreadful bishops we faced last year? My poor dear.” Hubert kisses on top of the scar, eyes closed, and swirls his tongue against it. “I did not realize it had cut so deep.”

Now he kisses down to Ferdinand's bicep, and rests against it with closed lips. “You were always strong, but seeing how powerful you’ve become these past few years is truly mesmerizing. How I love to watch you grip and slash with those mighty arms of yours.” He kisses at the center of the muscle, and sucks the skin into his mouth. “And how I love when those same arms pin me down.”

Ferdinand twitches at that, sighing to himself, and Hubert presses one fingertip to his lips. “Easy, my love.”

Now Hubert lavishes broad pectorals with his tongue, and takes a hungry nip at them, as well. “Hm. And this.” His teeth scrape over one dark nipple, and Ferdinand squirms. “I could spend all day on these,” Hubert says, “and more besides.”

He sucks one nipple into his mouth, and toys at it with his tongue. Ferdinand's back arches, his torso lifting up to meet Hubert's mouth, but Hubert uses the flat of his hand against Ferdinand's sternum to push him back down. “Easy,” Hubert says. “Let me adore you.”

One more quick suck, then Hubert's mouth inches lower, hands curved around Ferdinand's sides, his thumbs framing the edges of a carved abdomen. “And this,” Hubert says, “is the true definition of divinity.” He licks at the crease between abdominal muscles, then closes his mouth to issue a low murmur against Ferdinand's skin.

His thumb traces the line of a fresh scab at Ferdinand's left side, and Hubert's throat tightens with the memory of it. It was from a few days ago, a skirmish on their way to the field of battle. But it could have been worse. It could have been far, far worse. This, too, Hubert kisses, and glances up at Ferdinand through his dark lashes. “My love. So brave, and so righteous.”

And as he suspects, Ferdinand cannot resist this gentle praise, and sweetly smiles back.

Next Hubert chases the sharp edge the of Ferdinand's hip where it meets thigh. Truly a delectable sight to behold. Ferdinand's cock has stirred in its thatch of wiry orange hairs, but Hubert is careful not to touch it, or brush too close to it—not yet. Instead, he feathers the tip of his nose against that sturdy hip, and exhales on the velvety skin there. “Just beautiful,” he whispers. “My beautiful angel.”

Ferdinand whimpers properly now, and Hubert smirks to himself. Now he knows he well and truly has his love’s attention.

But now he has reached the most vexing region of his lover’s body, in many ways. The long, chiseled span of his thigh, from hip to knee. Chiseled, merciless, beautiful—adored—but not unblemished. Hubert’s throat is tight at the mere sight of it, that long, skittering scar. Running the tips of his thumbs down its length is like tracing a sigil that conjures up dark memories. Two long weeks Hubert spent curled in a chair in the infirmary (with his lady’s permission, or perhaps insistence)—cleaning Ferdinand’s face, holding his hand, yelling at the healers so much they threatened to ban him from the room repeatedly. It was the only time Hubert found himself wishing he bore a sliver of faith in his heart, enough that he could contribute his own magic to mending flesh cut far too close to a killing vein.

But his magic was made for vengeance, fury; for unleashing a primal howl. So howl he did, over and over. The swordsman who dealt that fearful blow knew what it was to feel his own blood wrenched free of his veins; he knew what it was to taste Hubert’s wrath and choke on it until his throat collapsed and his body gave way to agonizing, soul-splitting spikes.

Even now, the sight of that scar makes that rage rattle around inside Hubert again, something never fully secured and stowed. Because rage was the only way to keep at bay the terror he’d felt watching Ferdinand tilt to one side, slide from his saddle like he was weightless. It was the only way to mend his voice shattered from shouting as he Warped halfway across the battlefield and gathered Ferdinand in shaking arms.

“And—and this.” Hubert’s voice threatens to shatter all over again; he stills it by pressing his lips to that scar. “This scar, I cherish the most of all.” He licks at the length of it, eyes closed, breaths shallow and tremulous. “Because the fact that you bear this scar at all means that you survived. That even this did not take you from me.”

Ferdinand lets out a deep sigh and the muscle beneath Hubert’s lips slackens further. With a shaky smile, Hubert glances up at him; finds Ferdinand watching him with soft eyes, parted lips. A beatific vision, one Hubert wants to worship at again and again. He wants to spend his whole life in constant devotion.

Carefully, he mouths at the soft skin just above Ferdinand’s knee, that tiny bit of cushion that pushes down when he stands. He nibbles at it, follows it around to the inside of Ferdinand’s thigh, and Ferdinand twitches with a soft moan.

“I love you,” Hubert says, against the lean inner muscle of his thigh. “Every part of you. All that you are. All that you think and do.” His mouth inches higher. “There is nothing of you that can ever disappoint me or frighten me.”

Ferdinand’s sigh grows louder as Hubert flicks his tongue higher. Gently pushes Ferdinand’s thighs apart. He hooks the thigh he’s currently lavishing over his shoulder, and then bites down, fiercer now, keeping his teeth dug in as Ferdinand cries out with a squirm.

He relinquishes his teeth and traces his nose, back and forth, against the mark he’s just left. “You are perfect. Flaws and marks and scars and every unblemished inch.”

“Please,” Ferdinand whimpers. “Hubert—I love you—please—”

“Shh. Gentle, love.” He presses the flat of one palm to Ferdinand’s stomach to still him. “Let me savor you.”

Ferdinand huffs, but as Hubert’s teeth sink in higher up his thigh, he goes limp again. Hubert worries with his tongue at the meaty bit of flesh clenched between his teeth, savoring its soapiness, its warmth, everything that makes Ferdinand’s skin taste like _Ferdinand_. He growls against it; slips one hand further around that thigh to grab onto the firm curve of Ferdinand’s ass. And he could bury himself just in that curve for days on end—has and will—lose himself inside Ferdinand, his tongue, his teeth hanging on, his cock thrusting into him again and again as he clutches Ferdinand to him, closer to him, closer still, a part of him, gazes and mouths and fingers locked together as they come.

But tonight he will be even gentler.

With his other hand, he feathers down from Ferdinand’s stomach along the hairy trail to his groin. Circles his fingers wide around the base of his cock. Ferdinand’s cries are hungrier, now; his hips roll as Hubert’s nose nudges into that nest of copper hair. As his breath steams against Ferdinand’s shaft.

“Flames,” Hubert murmurs, and relishes the way Ferdinand’s whole body reacts to every kiss of air against his skin. “You are so perfect. I’ll never tire of the taste of you.”

“Please,” Ferdinand keens. “Hubert, please—”

“Gentle, love. I told you to relax for me.” With his other hand, he traces the seam of Ferdinand’s ass. Squeezes tighter. “Don’t break that ribbon, all right?” Ferdinand whines in reply, but Hubert tightens his grip. “I said—all right?”

“All right,” Ferdinand confirms, breathless. To his credit, he does try to hold still—as much as Ferdinand is capable of it. “But—please—”

Hubert laughs against his length. Cradles it in his hand. Exhales slow against the dripping head, darts his tongue out—but doesn’t quite make contact. “Anything for you.”

Ferdinand lets out a shuddering gasp as Hubert’s mouth wraps around his cock. His hips stutter, agonized, but he mostly keeps from squirming as Hubert nudges his lips down, down, but not quite to the base.

And Hubert has never believed in any goddess, but this—this is his sacrament. His absolution. Because if he can be worthy of this divine creature, if he can offer him comfort and pleasure and solace and love—if he, too, is someone worth being loved—then it is all worth it. He is serving his life’s purpose.

He wraps his hand at the base of Ferdinand’s erection, to join with his lips, and begins to work them together, slowly but forcefully. The nails on his other hand bite into Ferdinand’s ass as he moves, tongue rubbing against his veiny ridge, savoring the salt and soap, groaning despite himself with every sweet sob Ferdinand makes. Ferdinand’s thighs squeeze at Hubert’s face as he hollows out his cheeks and works his way lower with each glide; shifts his hand to cradle his taut balls. He’s not at the right angle to take Ferdinand fully in his throat, but from the steady rise of cries and incoherent pleas pouring from those beautiful lips, Hubert doesn’t think Ferdinand will mind.

“Goddess, Hubert—fuck,” Ferdinand gasps. “Fuck. I love you so much—How did I deserve you—”

_You’re just_ you, Hubert thinks, and can’t deny himself a glance upward to admire how deeply flushed his lover is, his chest vivid scarlet beneath soft orange hairs. Ferdinand catches sight of him through wet lashes, and Hubert’s heart thuds, his whole body is too tight—the saintly attention of his Ferdinand almost too much for him to bear. His mouth slips off of Ferdinand’s cock with a wet noise, and he hesitates a moment, trying to catch his breath.

“Doing all right, love?” Hubert asks softly.

Ferdinand’s lips curve into that enamored smile that pierces Hubert like a lance made of sunlight. “Yes.”

Hubert hums, and the tightness in his chest balloons outward, his body tingling. He loves Ferdinand—loves _making_ love to him in every possible way, every possible configuration—but sometimes he loves tending to Ferdinand’s pleasure, exclusively, most of all.

If his professional satisfaction comes from seeing his lady’s goals fulfilled, then his personal purpose is to care for his Ferdinand—to serve him wholly, utterly. And, very often, to leave him wholly undone.

And with renewed purpose, he sinks his mouth back down onto Ferdinand and tugs him in deep with a mighty suck.

“Ah—! Goddess, Hubert, so close—”

And Hubert knows, because he knows the tension he feels in his beloved’s body, the pulse in his shaft, the rush of blood in his own ears. He bobs his head, furious, clenching at Ferdinand’s ass, stroking with his palm, eyes squeezed shut and mouth an instrument of his beloved’s pleasure—

And then his mouth is filled, hot, sour seed threatening to choke him as Ferdinand wails and locks Hubert’s face in a death grip with his thighs. Hubert sputters, swallows, but it’s a losing battle—cum spills from his mouth and onto Ferdinand. His heart is racing, the rush of euphoria he feels every bit as satisfying as if he’d climaxed himself. Yet this is different—this is a dizzying joy, an answered prayer, as Ferdinand slackens beneath him with a wrung-out sigh.

“Beautiful,” Hubert whispers, and laps carefully at the spilled seed in the thatch of Ferdinand’s hairs, doing his best not to brush against his oversensitive cock as it softens. “You’re so beautiful, darling.”

“Thank you,” Ferdinand slurs. “Hubert . . . c’mere . . .”

“Shh. One moment, darling.” Hubert kisses that jagged scar on his thigh again—now underlined with his own marks of worship. Then he pushes himself up off the pallet and crawls up toward Ferdinand’s face. He kisses Ferdinand’s wrists, knuckles, palms as he carefully loosens the now tightly-knotted ribbon.

Ferdinand hisses as his hands fall free, but Hubert catches them, and kisses the indentations along his wrists before easing them down to Ferdinand’s sides. Curling against him, he kisses Ferdinand’s temple.

And now it’s his turn to feel a rush of tears, eyes prickling and hot. Ferdinand turns toward him and clasps Hubert’s face in his hands. Kisses his eyelids, feather-soft. Tastes the threat of tears there, most likely, though Hubert isn’t ashamed of them—not here, never here. Ferdinand kisses him, open-mouthed and lazy, and Hubert can only answer with his own lips and tongue so heavy with Ferdinand’s taste.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand murmurs, forehead against Hubert’s. He runs one hand down Hubert’s still-clothed chest and reaches for his waistband—but Hubert catches the hand in his own.

“Not tonight,” Hubert says.

“Do not be ridiculous.” Ferdinand manages a tired laugh. “You could put an eye out with that—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Hubert kisses the tip of his nose. “All I want is to hold you.”

Ferdinand’s throat bobs at that, and he nods. “Th-thank you.”

And so Hubert shields him—with blankets, with himself. Hubert holds him firm as Ferdinand’s eyes flutter shut. Hubert holds him, and relishes every draw of breath, every sigh, every thrum of Ferdinand’s pulse.

Because death is at their gates; blood will always drip from their hands. But Hubert will pay any cost for this—will see his love through any dark night to the warmth of dawn. And so long as Ferdinand is Ferdinand—to Hubert, he can do no wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)
> 
> [@DecasArt](http://twitter.com/DecasArt)


End file.
